


Greater and More Terrible Things

by moodymarshmallow



Series: My Dear Warden [7]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zevran and Theron are settled in Antiva, and one of them finds a Crow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greater and More Terrible Things

Antiva suited him; it clung to him like wildfire smoke as he slipped into the alleyways and crowded squares, sometimes with Zevran, sometimes without him, always light-footed and deft, but not hidden. Theron Mahariel could not hide, not when his blood was written on his skin in stark red like a challenge, a warning to Antiva that he was not part of their games or their rhythms and those with good sense would step to the side when they saw him moving, small and swift and driven through their city. They did, because he was an oddity, an anomaly, an unmistakably Dalish elf in Antivan finery, darting from street to street with the grace of a battle-scarred alley cat. The concern on their faces made him smile.

He and Zevran stayed with Joséphine, taking advantage of her offer. They had come to Antiva with the intention of killing Crows even before meeting their new benefactor, and having a place to stay while doing so was an unexpected boon. She was a gracious host, providing anything they wanted or needed, though both were unwilling to ask at first. But Theron was curious where Zevran was cautious, and he spent long hours listening to Joséphine talk, sharing tea and empathy and stories about her late husband, her life as a child in Orlais, and, above all, her desire for vengeance. Theron spoke little, as was his wont, but within his pale, changeable eyes, there was understanding.   
  
Less than a month after they arrived in Antiva, a steady stream of information regarding the locations of high-ranking assassins had trickled in, gathered by both Joséphine’s contacts, the same ones who had uncovered Zevran’s location and Theron’s identity, and Zevran himself. Theron listened, sitting in cafés and sipping brandy, watching with a hunter’s gaze for red insignias with feathers and eyes; the heraldry of the Crows. He and Zevran made a game of it; the first one to return with proof that they’d made a kill got a massage, and breakfast in bed.

Theron found one first—a novice, surely—lost within the back allies of Antiva, a hand-rolled cigarette clasped between his teeth, jittery and nervous as he walked, glancing over his shoulder when Theron tossed a rock against the opposite wall, ducking into a deep shadow and sliding through it. He had this errant thought, this wonder about what the others would think of him now, stalking men like deer, using assassins’ tricks to deflect and misdirect as he closed in on the man. Alistair would disapprove, no doubt.   
  
Once he was close enough, yet still concealed, Theron called out to the man in Antivan, using a Crow greeting that Zevran had painstakingly taught him, Theron’s Dalish accent making the process more difficult than it ought to be. The assassin turned, instantly on guard, and Theron dropped to one knee to slip fingers into his boot before bounding towards the main, springing with the grace and purpose of a wild animal, toppling him to the ground and sinking the dagger into his neck. He could taste the arterial spray on his lips, metallic and hot, and then it was over, the man was still and Theron was panting with exerted fervor.   
  
He stripped the Crow of anything identifying him as such, the insignia, his contract, and his daggers, which were not as fine as Theron’s, but had bird skulls carved into the pommels. Joséphine’s guards were wary when he returned, covered in drying blood, but they let him pass, keeping one eye on the glint of blade at his hip.

To say that Joséphine was pleased was not sufficient—she was giddy. She took the insignia and twisted it in her hands, a strange smile on dignified face as she examined the small piece of thick cloth, following the lines of the black feathers with a thin, pale finger. Then, with a brisk clap of her small hands, she summoned Alenla, sending her with a message to the cook that there was to be a feast prepared for the night.   
  
“I still think she’s mad,” Zevran said later, sitting on a small stool near the washtub, his hands covered in suds and blood as he massaged Theron’s scalp, helping him get his long hair clean.   
  
“Perhaps.” Theron tilted his head back, so content that he was drowsy, murmuring in low, soft groans at the pressure and pleasure of warm water and strong hands. “But are we any different? Is our motivation more sane, though the desired effect is the same?” Zevran only grunted at him. “I wonder though; are we right for doing this?”   
  
“You are asking the wrong man for moral judgments, mi amor, but we are doing no more than what the Crows would do to us if they knew we were here. Whether we are right or wrong in this…that is for the Maker to decide, no?”   
  
“The Maker is a story—a poor one.”   
  
“Then we do not need to worry about his wrath,” Zevran said with a chuckle, bending at the waist to kiss Theron’s wet forehead. “Do you have regrets, my sweet?”   
  
“No regrets, just thoughts.” Theron slid deeper into the tub, stretching out his legs so that one foot peeked over the water to rest on the side. Though the water was ruddy from blood, he soaked in it, closing his eyes when Zevran pressed fingertips lightly against his scalp. “I like here—perhaps too much.”   
  
“Antiva City is like that. You would think having grown up in whorehouses and warehouses with the stench of leather and fish would have put me off of the place, but no, she is still home, and given the opportunity I would stay forever.”   
  
“That will be a difficult thing if the Crows find us.”   
  
“They have done so before.”   
  
“But in Ferelden, without the strength of the guild to fall back on. They have an army of assassins and mercenaries, and we have one rich woman who you believe is mad.” Theron rose from the water, dripping, letting Zevran wrap a towel around him once he was out of the tub, and reaching up to wring out his hair. “It will not be easy.”   
  
Zevran gathered him up, wrapping his arms around his slim shoulders and pulling him in, kissing his chin and then his lips, tilting his head to better open his mouth to taste it, not minding when water began to soak through to his skin. “Perhaps. But for you amor, I would do greater, and more terrible things.” He trailed his fingertips down Theron’s cheek, over his sharp cheekbone and the dark, tingling vallaslin, then pressed them firmly against Theron’s lips as he moved to speak. “Come, we must dress. There is a feast in our honor, or so I hear.”


End file.
